A cold dread began to mingle with my rage. “And Sofía was their latest mark.”
“Exactly. And because the apartment deed was signed over to ‘Eleanor’ yesterday morning with Sofía’s digitized signature—which David likely forged or coerced her into signing under duress—the law currently recognizes Eleanor as the rightful owner. If we go to the police right now, it will take months, maybe years, of litigation to prove fraud. By that time, the loan sharks will foreclose on the house, and David and his mother will be sipping cocktails in a country with no extradition treaty.”
“I don’t have months, Julian. I want them bleeding now,” I growled, slamming my fist onto the desk. The scotch glass rattled.
“There is one vulnerability,” Julian said, a grim smile playing on his lips. “The loan David took out? It requires a physical verification of the property assets by the syndicate’s auditor to release the final tranche of the funds—another two million dollars. That walkthrough is scheduled for tonight at 9:00 PM at the apartment. David and Brenda have to be there to sign the final physical release documents.”
I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of my study. It was 7:45 PM.
“Julian, call our security team. I want ten of our best men. We are going to that apartment.”
“Arthur, your heart—”
“My heart is perfectly fine, Julian,” I interrupted, my voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the room. “In fact, it hasn’t beaten this clearly in years.”
At 8:45 PM, my black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the gated entrance of the luxury high-rise complex I had paid for. The security guards at the gate recognized my car and immediately raised the barrier, unaware of the storm that was about to breach their pristine tower.
Julian was in the passenger seat, his laptop open, tracking the GPS signals Marcus had placed on David’s phone. Two other SUVs filled with my private security personnel parked quietly in the shadows of the underground garage.
We took the private elevator straight to the 22nd floor. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in plush cream wool that muffled our footsteps. I stood in front of Apartment 22B—the home I had gifted to my child with dreams of her raising a happy family inside it.
I didn’t knock. I signaled to Elena, my head of security, a former Special Forces operator. He stepped forward with a specialized electronic override device, bypass-cloning the smart lock. Within three seconds, the digital lock beeped green, and the heavy oak door swung open.
The interior was immaculate, smelling of expensive candles and white truffles. Soft jazz music was playing from the surround-sound speakers. Sitting on the Italian leather sofa was David, looking dapper in a silk shirt, pouring a glass of champagne for his mother, who was draped in a fur coat that I knew for a fact belonged to my daughter.
When the door opened, David turned around, a smug grin on his face, likely expecting the syndicate auditor. But when his eyes landed on me, the grin froze. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.
“Mr. Vance…” David stammered, spilling a drop of champagne onto his pristine trousers. “What… what are you doing here? And how did you get in?”
“Hello, David,” I said, walking into the living room with slow, deliberate steps. Julian and four large security guards filed in behind me, locking the door shut. “Lovely place you have here. Shame it doesn’t belong to you.”
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